March 2012

03/28/2012

Driving home from an early morning Pilate's class, I saw a bus ahead of me with yellow lights blinking. I slowed down and stopped behind the short bus as the lights turned red. I sighed as I watched an attendant in a reflector vest slowly climb down the stairs and cross Latouche Road. I looked at the clock: 7:55, thirty-five minutes till I need to be at work. Why did I choose this route?

And then I saw the girl with the awkward gait walk from behind the snow bank, her Mom at her side.

I watched as the dark-haired mother held her little girl's arm and treaded carefully across the ice towards the bus attendant. The mom pointed out waiting cars and kissed her daughter's cheek before releasing her to the hefty man. And she stood on the side of the road watching, as he guided her daughter across the street and up the bus stairs. She stayed watching as they walked down the aisle and he strapped her in the back seat.

The woman waved her arm high above her head, making rainbows in the brightening sky. The attendant mirrored her wave, on behalf of the daughter, who sat in her seat, hands down.

The Mom's face, like a hungry child peeking through a window at a Thanksgiving feast, was pleading, hopeful, brave, look at me, I'm here, I see you.

I'm struggling with understanding both of my children as of late. Olive with her dramatic tantrums, triggered by the slightest shake of the head or the softest no. With her though, I can write her behavior off as the oh-so-wonderful-terrible-twos. Elias, on the other hand, is an enigma. Nothing typical, not even within his multiple diagnoses. Even his type of cerebral palsy, ataxic, is atypical. His limited vision confusing. And well, the reason they call it Autism Spectrum Disorder is because there is such a wide range of behaviors and traits that children exhibit.

Elias is a former micro-preemie with special needs but really, what does that mean?

The other night he came running to our door before midnight, crying. I jumped out of bed and scooped him up into my arms. "What's wrong Babe?" No answer. I brought him into bed with us and he cuddled his skinny body into my curves. "Did you have a dream?" No answer. "You're safe, Elias, you're safe right here with me."

And yet I don't always know how to reach him. How to keep him safe.

From what crevice do his tears flow? What does he think about when he lays down at night?

Like the Mom on the side of the road, I am standing on the edge of knowing, painting the sky blue with my waves, wondering what my boy sees and feels. Wondering, always wondering, where this this road leads.

03/25/2012

In an Afghan village, a Jewish school in France, a gated community in Florida, all children, gunned down.

I can't seem to get these stories out of my head, can't stop thinking about their families, the terror and the blood. The trigger-pull losses, the stark holes left in the walls that once defined a life. The absurd nightmare, the randomness of place and time, that doesn't ever end. And I want to fly around the Earth like Superman, reversing time. Keep the men with the guns safe in their own homes, asleep, drooling on their cotton sheets, like babies.

03/22/2012

Elias fell out of his kitchen chair last night. When he hit the floor his two front teeth punctured his lower lip. I sat on the ground and held him to my chest as he cried. "I know it hurts," I said, as I tried to get a better look at the inside of his mouth.

"No it doesn't!" He sobbed and sucked the blood from his lip.

I didn't see him fall and I didn't even come running when I heard the crash. The boy falls all the time. It was only when I heard him cry that I knew something was wrong. He lay on the ground and swung his arm at me when I approached. That's when I saw the blood.

After checking his teeth and cleaning his face I tried to determine what happened. While in my head I was trying to decide if we needed to go to the E.R.

"Did you hit the edge of the table?' I asked

"No the floor. You should..." He cried. "You should put carpet down there!"

Ah yes, carpet, the saving grace. The protective cushion we all need. If only...

"I'm sorry Bud." I said as I held his head to my chest. "But you know, wherever you go there will be hard floors. And you will fall. But the thing about you Elias, is you will always get up again."

Its morning now and as I write I'm waiting for Elias to wake up, to see how his lip looks, and decide whether he'll need stitches. I'm hoping it will heal without intervention because I'm dreading trying to hold him still as he fights every attendant who attempts to help.

03/18/2012

We may still have three feet of snow on the ground, but the days are finally growing longer. The sun no longer teases us by merely rising above the horizon for a few hours, instead it graces us with over twelve hours of light. I can close my eyes and face the sun and believe, now, that spring will actually come. That underneath our two-story snow piles, deep within the frozen ground, tubers and bulbs begin their reach for the light. They have been well-insulated from the sub-zero temperatures, the coldest January on record, and will soon reward us with their colorful charms. Not today. Not even next month. But come May, the Crocuses will be the first to emerge. And I'll be here, ready to admire every last one.

It is often the little things that take my breath away. Or bring tears to my eyes. Small moments that others may not notice but I wish I could capture and frame on my bedroom wall; so when my mind spins in worrisome ruts, I can pull my gaze to these pictures and let go.

The other night we had dinner with friends up in Bear Valley, with views of the Chugach and the city lights below. When it was time to leave, Elias reached out to give two-year-old Canyon a hug. He wrapped his strong arms around Canyon's head and gave an appropriate amount of pressure for a toddler embrace. "Bye Canyon!" Elias said.

And I know it sounds ordinary, but for my son this is anything but. In the past we have had to carry Elias out of their house as he tried to squeeze my face. He has crawled after Canyon trying to knock him over with his head. We have spent entire evenings on Elias Duty unable to complete conversations with friends. And when he does give hugs to little people, he usually over does it, unintentionally hurting them with his lack of muscle control and body awareness. Not this time. Not this night.

As we drove home, I looked up at Venus and Jupiter, brighter than all the other stars, and instead of wondering what could be, as I'd been doing for days, I found myself smiling, not even thinking about making a wish.

03/11/2012

And its Spring Break. So I should feel all light and free-- but I suppose that's the old college me speaking, the girl who was only responsible for herself.

There really is no light and free in parenthood. Not as the mother of an eight-year-old with multiple disabilities and a two-year-old tyrant.

That's my new phrase for Olive. My tyrant. evilO.

"Mama, peas. Peas!"

"Alright,"

"Peas, Mama. Peas." She pulls on my pants and reaches her arm up towards the freezer door.

"Wait a moment Olive. Can you say, please Mama?"

"Peas mama."

I open the freezer and sort through the disorganized bags and boxes to find the Costco sack of organic peas. Olive likes them straight from the freezer.

"Yummy peas!" Olive smiles and claps and prances before me.

I open the bag and grab a handful.

"No, Me!!!" Olive wants to reach into the bag herself. She climbs up on our red stool and pushes her sticky hand into the bag. "Mmm, peas!"

As she starts to slide down she says, "Help, Mama, help!" I take her cup of peas with one hand and guide her back with the other. With her feet scure on our kitchen floor, I hand her the plastic cup of frozen peas.

"No peas!" She swats at the cup and throws her head back in disgust. "No peas!!!" She stomps her feet and waves her hands from side to side.

I give up, I want to say.

I lay myself down before your majesty. Chop off my head. Throw me to the aligaters in the moat.

But I'm the Mom. The oh-so-responsible-one. In charge of limit -setting and safe boundaries. I can't just fold. I can't give up. I can't run away.

But I do find myself dreaming of my college days. Or envious of my friends and neighbors who chose not to have children.

Just for a moment, I let myself imagine.

Aah, spring break. Sleep past ten, Drink coffee in my robe while catching up on-line. Change into ski gear. Head out on the trails. Meet friends at a pub for a late lunch and an afternoon beer. Head home for a nap with Nick. Shower and spruce up for an evening concert, put on my dancing shoes. Boogie with my babe until dawn.

Or hell, just go to bed early and sleep till I'm done. Read a book. Write an essay. Call my East Coast friends and finish a conversation without hanging up the phone to respond to my pants-pulling, mama-needing, screaming kids.

Aah, spring break.

Does anyone else ever think like this? Ever wonder what their life would be like without children? Just for a moment?

(If I'm really honest, I don't let myself think about it for too long. Because the daydream feels too good.)

03/07/2012

Elias stumbled into our room at 3:45 this morning. He walked around to my side of the bed and climbed in next to me.

"You alright?" I asked.

No answer.

He just wiggled and kicked until he found a comfortable spot curled within my frame. He soon fell back asleep; and as I started to follow, I heard him cry, just for a moment, before returning to the centered breath of predawn.

Oh if only I could be inside his dream.

In the morning, I asked him, "Did you have any dreams last night, Elias?"

"No," he said, as he always does when I ask. Always. No.

""Are you sure? You seemed kind of nervous when you stormed into our room in the middle of the night. Do you remember why you came running in?"

"What are we gonna have for breakfast?" Elias responded, as he walked towards the fridge.

And maybe it was my lack of coffee, but I found myself needing to turn away from my son. Because I wanted to shake him awake. Make him communicate in the way that I want. That I need. And I needed to turn away because its not about me anymore.

Not about what I want. Or what I need.

This is Elias. This is my son.

And I may never know what Elias dreams.

I know I can't be inside anyone's head when they sleep, I can't even keep track of my own midnight wanderings, but the mystery surrounding my son's mind feels so much deeper.

And it still cuts me when I'm feeling especially raw. Like early on a weekday morning after a poor night's sleep.

03/01/2012

After taking over two weeks off due to my bruised tailbone I'm back on the ice. And its tournament time. Times two. My women's league end of the season tournament, where the games finally matter, and the Fur Rondy coed outdoor hockey tournament. The only bummer is they are both this weekend.

The good news is my games don't conflict but this means I play four games on Saturday. And I'm already a little sore from my first women's league game tonight.

We lost 3-1 to the number one team but we played well, coming back from a 2-0 deficit in the first period with a goal in the third. Our young superstar Laura did all the work, skating the puck around everyone and getting off a hard shot; the goalie saved it but left a perfect rebound for me to backhand into the net as I fell and slid across the ice.

A typical Everett goal. I think I've celebrated more goals sprawled across the ice than I have standing on my blades. I'm not a pretty skater. But I hustle to the brink of my ability.

My favorite part of hockey is back-checking, or chasing the other team as they carry the puck towards your goal. You don't have to think like you do when you have the puck: Should I shoot now? Should I try to beat the defenseman to the outside? Do I deak the goalie to the right or the left? When you backcheck your only goal is to catch up to the skater and poke the puck away.

I love the purity of the pursuit, where effort matters more than skill.

A lot of hotshot skaters don't backcheck but only skate hard when they have the puck, forgetting that half the game is defense. Its not all about the glory of racking up points, but about protecting your net.

And sure, I love to score, but stopping the other team from scoring feels pretty darn good too. Even if the ref doesn't write your name on the score sheet or the handful of fans don't applaud your effort. You know.

And sometimes that's what really matters.

You know you just skated as hard as you could and caught up to your opponent and stole the puck. You interrupted their chance to score. And yes, now you have to think again, but for those previous strides it was all motion and drive.

And I think I skate especially hard because I can. Because my brain and my muscles communicate with ease. Because I know this isn't true for everyone.

Because I carry Elias with me even when I skate to forget, for awhile.